I Can't Believe It's Not Niddheart
Harald paced near the plot of land he cultivated on Ragnarr's land, back and forth of a tree with three javelins stuck into it.
*I have to be better*
He throws again, and again, and collects his javelins again and again to throw again.
*I have to be better*
He feels something like a cold rot in his chest as he throws each javelin. It spikes in his heart as each throw hits the tree.
*I have to be better*
As his third javelin hits the tree for the twentieth time, the cold twists in his chest as his ears hear the crack of skullbone giving way and not wood. He lies there, on the ground, gasping, only now realizing that he hasn't taken a breath since he began. He lies still for minutes, watching the clouds as he breathes.
From the ground, from his back, looking up he almost can't tell he's not home.
IF it weren't for the wrong earth behind his back, with the wrong worms swimming through it and the wrong plants sprouting from it.
If it weren't for the memory of his father's face, panicked as he took both hands on his hoe and hurled Harald along with twice Haralds weight in earth towards the fleeing ships.
If it weren't for the twist in his heart that he had never felt on Gotland…
Now that he thinks on it, he never felt it here either.
Not until the moment that he watched, confidently as his cousin was crushed only feet in front of him.
*My problem wasn't accuracy. My problem was that I threw the javelins at all….why did I do that? I wasn't afrai…*
His thoughts end, as they're interrupted by the cold rot twisting his lung around his heart, his breath lost once again.
*That can't be lie, I wasn't afraid to fall*
His chest is still, his breath regaining.
*The damn lizard pulled the javelin out of the arc I threw it in, I've got nothing to feel asha…*
Once again his insides twisted and he was thrown into a fit of coughing.
He lays there for a time. Unwilling to even think, he feels the ground beneath him, as his Father taught him. He thinks back to his Father's first lessons on feeling the dirt, and for a moment lies their happily, remembering the days when Gotland was safe and his Father could bury anything that came out of the woods or sea.
Remembering his father's words about the earth, he remembers his words about something else.
"There's no shame in fear, boy. The shame lies in denying it, or accepting it. Do neither."
*I…was afraid. That's why I threw the javelins*
The cold jumps up to his throat, present, but not twisting. Like it was waiting.
*I…wasn't afraid to fall. I was afraid of….failing. Of not doing enough. I threw those damn javelins because I underestimated how good I was at my actual job that we had actually talked about and how much that was going to affect the battle. I threw those javelins because I was scared of my contributions being ignored in Winter like they were in Summer. I…underestimated my comrades as well once Njal fell, and thought they couldn't kill it before it killed enough of us to slip the trap. I was wrong about that. They had it.*
The cold recedes, coiling around the base of his spine.
*I…don't need to practice these javelins. I need to practice what I'm good at, and if that doesn't work there's no remedy for a fear like a shield.*
His decision made, Harald leaves the javelins in the tree, and grabs his shield and pickadze, and starts moving through the steps of his Martial Style, furrows and hills in the dirt surrounding him as he moves.
It takes weeks, and he has other crises and other relevations, but with each day spent practicing his Style and remembering the words of his father, the cold recedes little by little, until as the season ends it's nothing more than a memory.
